


L'Orfeo

by lurrel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Horror, M/M, disturbing imagery, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur knows he has to bring Eames back. Based <a href="http://92qp.livejournal.com/15756.html">this artwork</a> by platina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Orfeo

**Author's Note:**

> _Pietade, oggie, e amore / Trionfan ne l'Inferno_ | _Behold, how love and pity now triumph in Avernus_  
>  \- L'Orfeo, Montiverdi

Arthur has been walking for days.

The sky is red, a dull watercolor of desert tones, auburn and ochre and orange all dripping into each other. The colors shift but it is never day or night.

Arthur was surprised that there was a sky in this place at all, seeing how he is technically underground. He knows that he wasn’t always in this place, that Hades isn’t even real.

But he also knows he can’t leave, no matter the ache in his joints. To sleep would be to lose time, so he’s stopped doing that, too, despite how his eyes want to slide closed against the grit.

There are holes in the soles of his shoes, worn there from trekking over soil and rock and finally this Martian-red dirt, the kind that’s found itself in his mouth, stuck under his nails.

But he’s found at least part of what he’s looking for, so the blisters must be worth it. It’s a hole, mostly, in the side of a cliff. Arthur thinks he probably has a while to go, but it’s a start.

-

The tunnels are dark, quartz glinting in a dim half light. Arthur hopes he’s moving towards its source, because it gets subtly brighter the deeper he gets.

Eventually, finally, the tunnel he’s in twists and opens into a wide open place, carved out of rock. There’s movement here -- shadows, even, that startle at the sight of him.

Eames’ shadow jerks, huge against the stone, when Arthur steps into the opening. Arthur thinks it must because he looks like shit.

His clothes have been ripped, torn, and he’s lost his jacket. He’s panting, exhausted, and he just wants to touch Eames, who glows like he’s not trapped underground at all.

Arthur is tired, wants to feel Eames and lean against his bare chest. He walks, stumbles forward. But Eames backs away, wide-eyed.

Annoyance isn’t what he expected to feel so soon after the warm rush of relief, relief that Eames is there and not spiraling into...somewhere else.

“This isn’t funny,” he says, taking a step forward, and Eames looks afraid, almost, but that doesn’t feel right, either.

“Eames.” He doesn’t have patience like this, rubbed raw from rivers and ghosts.

Eames’ expression changes to something canny, wary, more familiar. More aware. “How do you know my name? And why would you speak it here?”

There’s no sun here, but there are fields somewhere, Arthur has heard. Beasts shuffling backwards, men in chains, women without eyes, all of them have whispered secrets into his ears of how to take Eames back out.

He doesn’t believe them, but he knows he’ll succeed. Something heavy in his pocket tells him that they’ll leave this place.

“You didn’t think it would be easy, did you?” The words are purred as dark smoke curls into a shape, a person at Eames’ side, and Arthur’s hands are itching for the weapons he gave to Charon at the beginning of this entire farce of a dream. He knows this voice, because the woman it belongs to is Mal. But she’s not one that he’s met before -- she’s lovely, too lovely. She might not be human.

Arthur flinches when finely boned fingers splay across Eames’ torso.

“It didn’t take long to figure that out,” Arthur says, and the laugh is bright and clear.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, and snaps, and the last of the rags of Arthur’s clothes are stripped away, leaving him bare and pale. He hasn’t seen the sun in what feels like years and it’s been cold and dark, is still cold and dim. His skin tightens with goosebumps instantly.

His die slams to the ground the second his pockets dematerialize, rolling to rest at Eames’ feet. He looks at it curiously, and bends down to pick it up, and the woman snaps again. Arthur’s back in his trousers, a pressed shirt, and there are no burns or holes in them.

Arthur has to steel himself from physically, visibly recoiling when Eames touches his die, holding it between thumb and forefinger. He wonders if he should feel embarrassed.

“You’d be happy here, you know,” and the voice is right next to Arthur’s ear even though Mal’s body isn’t.

“Tell that to Persephone,” Arthur says darkly, and he plants his bare feet in the ground. The dirt is a familiar thing.

She laughs, and shakes her head. “I’ve always liked you in that color,” she says, and Arthur looks down at himself, at the way the red in his sleeves seems to bleed out onto his hands. The color looks overripe compared to everything else.

“Who is this, Mal?” Eames asks, and he looks at her in a way that makes Arthur ache somewhere inside.

“Give that to me and don’t worry so much, sweetheart,” Mal says, taking the cube from his hand and slipping it into an ethereal pocket -- her dress twists, like the shadows that brought her here.

Arthur follows when she leads him deeper.

-

Arthur should be surprised to see Cobb seated comfortably on an enormous ebony throne. The wood is polished black and looks heavy, like it’s sinking incrementally into the dirt and mica floor.

It’s not a surprise, though. The surprise is that they’re both here and he didn’t bring them.

Mal leaves Arthur behind as she ascends a few stone steps to a dais holding the throne. They’re in a wide antechamber and Arthur still isn’t sure where the dim light is coming from, only that some must be coming from Eames, who still looks sunkissed and healthy. Mal’s hand on his looks ghostly pale.

“He wants to take Eames away from us,” Mal says, her grip tightening around Eames’ hand.

Cobb blinks, slowly, as though waking. “Well,” he says, bright blue eyes sliding from Arthur to Mal, “you’re the right one to ask for advice then, on stealing mortals away.” He shifts upright.

“Don’t act so ungrateful,” she snaps, letting Eames’ hand fall back to his side. He looks a little lost and Arthur hates seeing that expression on his face.

“I would never, my lady,” Cobb says, unfolding himself and standing near Mal. He kisses her cheek, and a few flowers burst forth near her bare feet. The light in the cave flickers brightly.

“It’s good to see you again, Arthur,” Cobb says. Arthur knows that this man has a name, that the name is Dom Cobb. But there’s something else he needs to know now, and it involves all the ways this man is _not_ Dom Cobb.

“You should be more familiar,” Arthur says, and then looks over at Eames who is fidgeting even as he fades into the background. His face is open, confused, and Arthur wants to will him into being more familiar as well.

Cobb shrugs. “You always did keep us hanging around.”

Arthur wants to say that it isn’t true, but he isn’t sure of himself. Yet? Anymore?

“We’d rather,” Mal says, and then there’s an uneasy pause when she looks at Cobb.

She takes a deep breath and continues. “We’d rather you stayed with us. Eames could go then, if he wanted.” Eames looks alarmed at the prospect, his hands clasped together nervously.

Arthur shakes his head, wishes he had a gun. “I’m not leaving without him.”

“You could just not leave at all,” Cobb says, and then Mal claps her hands together, once.

“We do love guests, Arthur,” she says, and again her voice curls like smoke around each of his ears. He looks behind him, and sees a long ebony table, filled with fruits, covered platters. Jugs of wine.

He’s struck by hunger that he thought he’d forgotten; it aches along his ribs. He wonders what it would be like to just touch an apple, feel the meat and the skin in his hand.

He drags his eyes back to her. “You know I can’t.”

“But don’t you want to, Arthur?” Mal asks. “Don’t you miss us?”

“It would only take a few bites,” says Cobb and he leans close. “You could have all you wanted.”

“A few more bites and you wouldn’t even remember Eames was ever here at all,” says Mal and she’s smiling.

“I’m just here for Eames,” Arthur says, but part of him wonders if they could do it, if they could make him forget.

“How will you get him back, then?” Cobb is leaning on his heels. He looks satisfied, in a way that Arthur doesn’t quite remember. Cobb never looked quite like this but Arthur isn’t sure why he knows that anymore.

“Why would you want _him_ over me?” Eames’ voice wavers and he isn’t sure if he should stand up with the Cobbs or walk down to Arthur, so he stands uneasily on the steps.

It’s not the right question, and even the cave knows it, shuddering. The table ripples but nothing falls, and Mal tilts her head. Her expression is soft and sad, and she runs her fingers through Eames’ hair.

“Eames... _I_ don’t want them over you,” Arthur says, each word spoken carefully.

Cobb smiles, still self-satisfied, but Mal is the one showing teeth.

“How will you take him back?” she asks, almost a snarl, leaning over him.

“It will only take a taste,” Arthur says, and steps toward Eames, to the stairs.

“Even less than a bite,” he continues, standing one step down from where Eames is now regarding him. Eames looks almost pleased but Arthur can’t know that face, not yet.

She rolls her eyes at him and crosses delicate arms and Arthur, Arthur just grabs Eames by the shoulder, the skin warm and so very alive under his hand that he wants to shudder with the pulse of blood.

Eames jerks and his eyes narrow, shoulders flex, all the life still coiled and hot under his skin, but Arthur can’t move, keeps his hands there. The heat of Eames makes the chill of the room so much less tolerable.

“Please,” he says, and if he weren’t so bloodless now, he’d be blushing. Why is this so hard, he wonders, it should be smooth and natural.

Eames’ eyes flicker to his keeper and then back to Arthur, and then he nods, once.

It’s a surge, the way Arthur crashes into his mouth, the way he has to lean up and into him.

It only takes a taste, though, and then Eames is crushing him closer, running a hand up his back to rest at the nape of his neck.

“Arthur,” he says, the awe in his voice reverberating into Arthur’s mouth. “You came.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, and finally, finally lets himself relax, just a little. He slumps against Eames’ broad and bare chest, breathing in. Eames smells different, but Arthur can’t tell if it’s just the sulfur and bone of this cave, this place, or if it’s something like a disguise.

His eyes look right, the same unknowable gray and hazel they’ve always been. Arthur thinks it could be enough when nothing else is familiar.

“This is more interesting than I expected,” Mal says, uncrossing her arms and studying them with an unwavering gaze.

“I don’t know why this is such a surprise to you,” Arthur says over Eames’ shoulder.

“If it wasn’t a surprise, why would we both be here?” Mal’s tone is matter-of-fact, but Arthur doesn’t want to look at her face.

It makes him pause.

“I suppose you can go,” Cobb says, but it doesn’t sound sincere, “if this place isn’t to your liking. You know you can have anything you want here.”

“What about Eames?” Arthur asks, but he doesn’t want to move his mouth too far from Eames’. Can’t let go of him yet.

“Eames?” she asks. “Eames is free to do what he likes.”

“He always has been,” says Cobb.

-

Eames knows the ways out of their palace, the cave.

“Those weren’t the Cobbs,” Arthur says, squeezing his hand as they walk. Arthur’s too tired to run, and he can feel Eames’ pull on his arm.

“They could have been the Cobbs,” Eames says, defensive, and Arthur doubts he’ll get much of an apology for making him cross five rivers.

“Remember,” Eames says and holds his hand tight as possible for a moment. “I’ll be behind you the whole time, but you can’t look back.”

“I know the story,” Arthur says. Eames’ eyes are still too wide.

He steps out.

-

It’s bright outside the cave and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to look left or right to get his bearings. So Arthur doesn’t, just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other until he reaches a river. There are enough of them.

The dirt beneath his feet stops glinting with hidden promises soon enough, turning into regular soil, then asphalt forged by heat Arthur doesn’t want to remember.

There are noises. He knows, he can tell something is behind him that isn’t Eames. Several somethings. What if the Cobbs, Eames’ Cobbs (because Arthur’s sure that’s who they were, he’s never had them to himself like this) come back? What if he’s in danger?

Arthur stares down at his feet.

The first hand to grab his shoulder almost breaks him, because there isn’t a warning sound, the snap of twig breaking. Instead, it’s the presence of nothing and then the sudden heavy weight of something on his arm, and he jerks, eyes slamming shut.

Another one reaches out, snags his beltloops. A hand, some kind of hand, rakes against the hem of his shirt.

“Eames?” Arthur calls out but he doesn’t expect an answer. Another hand, larger, scrapes the top button of his shirt off with a curved and dangerous nail.

“Don’t look behind you,” says Eames in his ear, and Arthur knows things are following him too.

He can feel the tentacle run up his calf, the damp tendril curling over the sensitive skin of the back of his knee, and he stumbles forward. He wants to keep his eyes shut but then everything will be dark, not just the looming shadows in his peripheral vision.

A hand slides across his rib cage and another glances off his hipbone, and he has to jog to pull his short hair free from things that resembles fingers but don’t quite fit the description. There’s the rasp of skin as the hands, the claws, the fingers, the tentacles all jostle against each other to try to grab at him, and the noise rises as his heartbeat gets faster, louder in his ears. It’s almost painful, how tangible his terror becomes.

And then.

Space ends in front of him and the noise grows behind him.

His chest is bare now, and nails are clawing into his skin. He can feel the flesh tear and he can’t move.

It isn’t quite a wall, it’s just. Nothing. The dirt beneath his feet is gone, it’s bright, and the hands keep coming, touching him, pulling off his shirt. One grips firm on his pants and it’s fear, fear, fear.

Arthur’s heart is hammering, thudding at every point in his body, and a hand is fondling down his spine to rest at his tailbone. Claws rake up his hip.

One last hand, a familiar one, wraps around his throat. The fingers are strong and settle at the hollow. Warning or soothing, Arthur can’t tell.

“Don’t look, love,” says Eames, says something with Eames’ voice that is now curling blunt fingers in his hair, holding his head steady. He can feel lips on his scalp, soft, murmuring.

“Eames, tell them to stop,” Arthur says but his voice is small, the words croaked out. Things have begun to pull at him in earnest and he’s trying to move forward, but each push into the expanse of nothing brings more hands, most weight holding him back.

“I can’t,” Eames says. He sounds sad, and kisses Arthur’s hair again.

“You can,” Arthur says but it’s a plea with desperate edges.

Eames tilts Arthur’s head back and he can’t see the hands around his ankles, pressing into his bones.

He sees nothing.

Eames presses a kiss to the crown of his head and Arthur, Arthur feels his flesh rip and he waits.

-

Eames is watching Arthur sleep, then stir into waking, in their bedroom of the moment. They’re in a rental house in Baton Rouge, and outside the sky is the watery gray of predawn and barely filtering through the blinds.

“I’m heading down to the store,” Eames says and he leans over to kiss Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur leans into him but his arm is reaching out to the side table, grasping. Eames catches it in his own, kisses his open palm and folds his arms back into the bed.

“Don’t wait up,” Eames says as he leaves the bedroom.

-

Arthur opens his eyes and sees Eames standing next to the bed, facing away from him.

“Eames?” he asks, mumbles really. His head feels fuzzy and his mouth is so dry, like he’s been asleep for days. Nights.

“Yes love?” Eames asks, turning to look down at Arthur over his shoulder.

“The bed’s cold without you,” Arthur says as he realizes that it’s true. Eames has been out of bed long enough for it to go cold. “What’ve you been up to?”

“I told you I was going to the store,” he says, and he’s pulling his shirt off.

Arthur reaches out for his die, next to his reading glasses and an alarm clock. The weight lets him sink back into the pillows, but he can’t help but squint up at Eames.

“You never wake up before me.”

Arthur can’t help spilling facts like these, but he’s worked hard to trust that variation doesn’t always mean danger. Not with Eames.

Eames is standing on Arthur’s side of the bed, but he clambers in over him anyway, pressing him down into the mattress. Arthur hums into his neck, warm, and then rolls them both so they’re facing each other, laying on their sides.

“Well, I had to go get the essentials for your coffee.” Eames looks showered but smells like sleep. Arthur isn’t sure how to even make that into a question, wonders if it’s worth it.

“You could have waited,” Arthur murmurs instead, shifting as Eames rests a hand on his hip. His thumb makes a lazy trail over the bone. “I would have gone with you.”

Eames is smiling, and Arthur likes that the curve of it, the closeness is familiar. He lifts a finger to trace it but Eames catches his wrist and kisses the skin there, over his veins. He bites at it, teeth scraping the skin pink.

“I know you would,” Eames says, pulling Arthur closer, “I know you’d come with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ on November 6, 2011.
> 
> So I wanted to write a ficlet based on [this gorgeous artwork](http://92qp.livejournal.com/15756.html) of Arthur and Eames done by platina, because the first thing I thought of was Orpheus leaving the underworld and instead I accidentally a whole fic. This was written after listening to a lot of Montiverdi (unsure how I feel about the tempo of that recording), and my Halloween playlist of spooky classical music. Thanks Verdi. Anyway, super big thanks to platina and abuseofreason, who patiently held my hand and was an exceptional beta.


End file.
